Saturday, 29 October 2011

Update: I "drunk" email too.

**please note that by drunk email I mean I email when mostly asleep** - Dee also texted me at 9am, without reading her email first. I did not kill her… yet

From: karin
To: dee
Date: Sat, 29 Oct 2011 03:41:25 -0700

insomnia tried to kill me... and then made me paranoid. So I blogged about it. Dee my mind is really messed up and I can't get off this crazy train. FYI if i had died Neil and/or Liam had to assure you that I loved you, so remember that I thought to cover that basis before being attacked by the pillow creeper(s). please read my blog before asking me wtf i'm talking about. And then you can ask me wtf I'm talking about. because we'll be on the same page... unknowing in THE BOOK WITH NO TITLE! I'm really tired... I loooooooooooooooooooooooooooove you. If you text me really early (like before 10am) I may kill you though. Look at the time of this email! I AM STILL (mostly) AWAKE RIGHT NOW!

It's 330am right now, do you know where your Karin is? IN FUCKING BED WITH POSSIBLE CREEPERS


p.s. I don't know what a creeper is other than a creepy person that may be in bed. right there ---> 

p.p.s. I was going to edit this email, but i figured you'd enjoy it more if i didn't edit out the crazy to try and make sense. YOU'RE WELCOME

p.p.p.s. I don't even know what P.S. stands for. Why would you multiply the P? can't a P.S. just go on for a few paragraphs?

p.p.p.p.s. I googled it. It means "post script". Now i remember I knew that before. And thought it was stupid back then, much like I do now. Why not just move your p.s. thoughts above your signature and include it in the main letter? Because this is the fucking lazy way to do it, that's why. Stupid English and their lazy rules.

p.p.p.p.p.s. do you think they pronounce each P on its own? or is it more like a ppppps sound? 

p.p.p.p.p.p.s. haha JUST KIDDING! I had no 6th ps to include, I was just yanking your chain.

p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s. no wait, I did. I'm saving this email to my drafts folder too, so I can read it when I'm fully alert and awake and see if it still makes sense to me, or if it's even written in English. At this point, i may just be smushing the keyboard and *thinking* real words are coming out. WHO KNOWS! I'm really tired.

A Window into the Mind of Karin

I will update this blog with pictures later, when I’m more alert and able to rock the stick figures (and as long as I'm still alive...). I’ll probably leave this opening up anyway, because that is how I roll.

So, this is another little window into the world of the crazy that is Karin. Here I am in bed, it’s 2:50am. I am typing this blog. Why? Because I’m 76% certain that it may provide the police with an insight into what happened to me.

You see, I have a body pillow on my bed. You know the long pillows that are almost body sized, right? So it’s under my blankets. Almost every night, I pounce on it to be sure that it’s a pillow and not a person that has knocked the pillow off the bed against the wall and taken the pillow’s place. THIS IS A LOGICAL FEAR!

Tonight I decided to go to bed, and did not pounce on the pillow. I brought the laptop with me as I’ve been suffering from some insomnia due to my lack of taking sleeping meds to help me sleep. So I’m laying here, in slightly partial (BUT NEVER MOSTLY OR COMPLETE!) darkness, and I realize that I did not pounce on the pillow.

I have no idea if it’s a pillow or a creeper. I have not checked the other side of the bed to ensure there is no pillow on the floor either, and it’s too late as that would require laying across the pillow/creeper to see if there is a pillow on the ground. So right now, I am laying in bed next to a potential creeper.

There is what *could* be a slight noise like someone opening their mouth to breath (or the electrical in the wall clicking), and now that these thoughts are in my head, I’m too freaked out to check to see. If it IS a creeper, I lose the upper hand by being the one on the top of the blanket and smothering them under the blanket (as I am currently under the blanket).

They’re waiting for me to fall asleep so they can grope me. I am onto you, creeper disguised as a pillow.

If I die, remember, I love most of my friends. And would be willing to kill a majority of you if you became zombies. Share my story. I’m going to check to see if it’s a creeper after I post this. Let this be a lesson to you all, always check for creepers disguised as body pillows BEFORE getting into bed. 

**3am update: False alarm! It was a pillow. I checked. I seriously yelped and almost peed a little when checking though. You may all go on about your business**

**3:15am update: I am now concerned that there is a creeper beside my  bed near the wall, or under my bed. I have tried to convince my friend to come check for me... but since he doesn't have a key to get in, I'd have to get up to let him in at which point the creepers would get me anyway... I'll check in a sec to be sure... Remember, love, zombies, kill, and so forth**

**3:25am update: Ok house checked, creeper free. I realize now, my walls are very thin, my landlord probably heard me. So at this time of the night he most likely heard the yelp of fear when I jumped on the pillow, the sigh of relief with "oh thank god" afterwards, the chanting of "fuck fuck fuck" when I realized the other potential hiding spots of creepers, followed by the "AH HA!!!" noises every time I thought I'd caught a potential creeper by surprise. I wonder what kind of life he thinks I lead...**

please note this event really did happen. No I am not drunk. No I did not do any drugs prior to my mind taking this path. It did it all on it's own. Sober. How fucked up is that... BE GRATEFUL I DON'T DRINK OR DO DRUGS PEOPLE! THINK OF HOW MUCH WORSE IT COULD GET!

**update: I decided not to draw pictures, but I did take a photo of my bed to show that there really could be creepers in there**

Sunday, 23 October 2011

Fond Childhood Memories part 2

This tale explains why my father decided not to come home early from work any longer.

Dad was a surgeon, and was usually home between 6-7 at night. My mom ran his office, so they went to and from work together most days, except on the days he worked in the operating room (OR), so they’d travel in their own vehicles. On this specific day, it was an OR day and he was done early and decided to come home to spend quality time with his family. BIG MISTAKE DAD!

Us children (again, remember there were 3 of us, which is a BAD combination) came home and were in the kitchen scavenging for food when Sean happened to look in the dining room and was like “hey guys, does the chandelier look weird to you?”

We’d just moved into this house about a month ago, and we’d never had a fancy chandelier before, so who the hell knew what was “normal” for it. So of course this specific chandelier didn’t look right. So we decided we would fix it, because we were a 6, 10 and 12 year old set of electrical master minds who completely understood lighting and wiring. Except we completely weren’t.

Child logic was “if I hold onto the chandelier and try and shift it over, it’ll look right” because that makes COMPLETE FUCKING SENSE. So we got a chair (there was no dining room table at the time) and since I was the lightest one, they decided I should be the one to shift it. I don’t know where that logic came from, but it made sense at the time. So I’m standing on the chair, my brothers in the living room watching me to see if the light “looks better” with whichever way I shifted it.

Needless to say, as I was gripping the chandelier with both hands, the chair gave way. So there I was, 6 year old me, hanging from the chandelier still in my school uniform, and my brothers both screaming in the living room. Sean started paging 9-1-1 calls to dad’s beeper (this was 1989, we didn’t have cell phones, not even the Zack Morris brick phone) over and over and over.

This went on for about 5 minutes, no one even thought to come and straighten the chair out under me so I could get down (or say, my oldest brother just lifting me off the chandelier), and there was screaming and crying and sobbing from all three of us. Since we were all electrical masterminds, the next thought that entered our collective heads was “Oh shit, the chandelier will crash and the whole house is going to blow up!!!!” which led to more screaming and crying and sobbing. My little arms were getting tired, and with the gentle twisting of the chandelier I was starting to get dizzy.

Then I saw it. My salvation. In one of the moments that my body happened to be facing the living room windows, I saw my dad’s car pull up. THANK GOD!!! I started screaming “DADDY’S HOME!!!!! WE’RE SAVED!!!” I think my dad heard me… As he’s walking up the walk to the front door, he stopped and looked in the living room window. Then down at his beeper with the 10,000 9-1-1 home pages. Then back at the living room window. This is what he saw:

And then this is what I saw:

At this time, my arms gave out and I fell. The whole 2 feet to the floor. I didn’t die, or break any bones. We straightened the chair, and didn’t mention it again until dad brought it up several years later.

Fond Childhood Memories, part 1

All my crazy adventures started early on in my life. I bring to the table bright, shining memories of the crazy that is Karin’s life.
My parents went out for dinner every Thursday night. This was common knowledge, and once my brothers were old enough to be left at home alone, we no longer required a babysitter. One evening, the three of us decided it would be a great idea to make a cake for our parents. I know what you’re thinking. Awwwww, how cute!




This was a terrible idea! Why? Because there were three of us. And we were related by BLOOD. This is not a good mixture.

The making of the batter went off without a hitch. It was from a box, all of us were at reading age. Only 2 eggs were wasted, so that could have been considered a win. The only issue was the daunting task of figuring out the oven. I was eight. My brothers were twelve and fourteen. What kind of fourteen year old doesn’t know how to use a fucking oven? Jason. So Sean (brother #2) stepped up, claiming he was completely the oven master and promptly started pushing the buttons, the oven red light went on, we were all impressed and the cake went in.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, I smelled something.

“Uh… guys? Do you smell that?”

“No, it’s fine. Just watch the TV”

*five more minutes pass*

“Uh… guys? It smells like something’s burning…”


“Ok, is the oven supposed to smoke like that?”

At this point, we all run to the oven and lo and behold, the cake is on fire. Not just a tiny little fire, no. The whole fucking thing is flaming. And the oven door is locked. And the smoke is coming out.

“Shit shit shit shit!!!” – Sean

“If you know how to use the oven why is the cake on fire?” – Jason

**I’ve picked up the phone at this time and called our neighbour, Mr.B**

“Uh, Hi Mr.B… Yes, it’s me. Um, do you happen to have a fire extinguisher? For no particular reason… Oh good… Can Jason come get it right now? NO DON’T COME OVER!!!!!”

Of course, with an awesome call like that from your best friend’s daughter (who was sobbing at the time, as I was convinced the whole world was going to catch fire and die from the cake flames), who wouldn’t rush over with a fire extinguisher and extra people to put out the flames????

NO ONE. THAT’S WHO! Of course 2 min after I hung up the phone, 3 of the B family members are at the door, ready to help put out the fire that has potentially engulfed our house. It was still contained in the oven.

After much button pushing (proper button pushing!) Mrs.B gets the oven open and the cake is taken out.

“So… why would you bake a cake on the auto-clean setting?” – Mrs.B

Not only were 2 eggs and a potentially delicious cake lost in this tragic story, but so was a knife as Sean wanted to see if the cake was still “good” under the crispy layer. No the cake was not good under there. It ate the blade of the knife and didn’t let go. A tea towel was also lost, with the attempt of putting out the fire and it succumbing to the flames.

A few hours later (and a new baked-at-the-B’s-house cake provided) my parents come home none the wiser. We love you Mom and Dad, please ignore the chunk of charcoal in the cake pan with a knife sticking out of it. This other cake was made with love. And less auto clean.

Thursday, 20 October 2011

Alien Abduction

As we all know by now, I sleep in super sexy attire. If you’re not sure what I’m referring to, click here.

I also sleep in the weirdest positions. I’m freaky flexible and am not comfortable sleeping like a normal person.

If my knee is not up against my chest or my side and the other leg extended back, I can’t sleep. I also have issues sleeping for long periods of time. Recently I explained to my friend I was sleeping terribly.

Me: Fuck I can’t seem to have a decent night’s sleep!

Dee:   That sucks! What’s wrong?

Me: I go to sleep and don’t wake up til just before the alarm goes off!
Dee: …

Me: Seriously, it’s horrible! I don’t wake up at all.

Dee: …

This is where I have to explain myself. You see, if I sleep through the night, I wake up before the alarm goes off, and then I have to get up. If I sleep the way I prefer, I wake up several times throughout the night, check the clock, see I have several hours left to sleep, go back to sleep, and repeat the process three or four more times.

If I sleep all the way through the night, I wake up expecting to have several hours of sleep remaining, only to see that I have to drag my ass out of bed in 10 minutes. I feel like I’ve fucked myself out of several good sleeping hours. That makes sense, right? So if I sleep through the night and don’t wake up, it’s a terrible sleep and I wake up disappointed.

On this one fateful morning, I had awoken from my evening of terrible sleep and noticed something. My eyemask was missing. Trying not to panic at the thought of future nights with light piercing my eyelids, I searched all over the bed for it.

No luck.

It was not on/in/under the pillows, in the blankets, or on the floor. In frustration I moved my leg in frustration and felt something weird. I looked down…

Seriously. I looked down and there was my eye mask. Calmly wrapped around my leg like it was trying to protect my ankle from the light of the cruel cruel morning.

How the fuck did that happen?

Let me tell you. I know EXACTLY what happened. I was sleeping all calmly, in my funky position, wearing my eye mask, the DDM were being kept at bay by the light coming from my little mushroom lamp…

And an alien came into my room. That’s right. A MOTHER FUCKING ALIEN!

So this alien decided that because I am the definition of human sex appeal, they needed to abduct me. Please remember I sleep not in a black dress, but in a hoodie, thick pants and socks, along with the eye mask. I was just too lazy to keep re-drawing all that shit over and over again.

So the alien took me back to its mother ship and showed my sleeping self off to all it’s alien friends.

After the alien finished showing sleeping me to all it’s friends, it decided I was much too awesome to keep away from the human race. I was destined to rule the world (and control the entire world’s supply of gummies…) and the aliens knew this with their superior intellect. It decided to return me to my bed, in the condition and position it found me in.

There was only one problem. With all their advanced knowledge and space travel capabilities, you’d think they’d have figured out the eye mask.

(just in case someone who reads this isn’t quick on their feet, female elder fornicator = mother fucking)

So after much contemplation and I’m sure lots of math equations...

The decision was made that my eye mask was in fact, a tool to keep my feet warm. Therefore they wrapped it around my ankle and put me back in my bed.

Listen, alien bedroom invaders. You may be climbing in my window, snatching my sleeping self up, trying to experiment on me… You don’t have to come and confess, I know it was you.

I am onto your shenanigans.

I know I was abducted by aliens. This incident in no way could be explained by my taking sleeping pills and then moving around enough while asleep to shift my eye mask down and in one of my sleeping flails, get it caught on my foot. That is just plain silly.

Tuesday, 18 October 2011

Why I'm Glad My Workplace Doesn't Have an HR Dept: Part 1 - Pulling a Karin

 This is a happy little story on why I appreciate that my work does not have an HR department. I’m fairly confident we would have been fired several times over if we did.

One fantastic Food Friday*, my tummy hurt. Normal people would drink gingerale or take TUMS to resolve this, but I had a more logical, less effort approach to the situation.

Rather than taking something to make my tummy feel better (and avoid foods that made it worse), undoing the pants button provided instant relief and also more potential room for delicious food!!!!

On this particular Food Friday, we decided to order Greek food. Knowing how much I love Tzaziki sauce, my donair was ordered with extra sauce. Extra delicious, saucy, messy, flavour filled deliciousness which spelled more potential mess for Karin.

My eating practices are less than socially acceptable, and three times as messy as a toddler. Let me draw it out for you:

Please note, I grew up with 2 older brothers who would eat anything I was not fast enough to. This forced me to develop caveman like eating habits like hunching over a garbage can and facing the corner of the room so that I could eat as quickly as possible (the garbage can would catch any crumbs or debris that I was not able to inhale).

I know. I am sexy.

Once my delicious donair was scarfed down (as lady like as possible), I realized the mistake I’d made. Due to the extra sauciness of my Donair, I was left with sauce all over my face and hands. This is normally fine, I could always get up and go to the bathroom and wash my hands. But no. Not on this fatal Food Friday.

My pants were still undone.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I had 2 options:

I could either do up my pants with my saucy hands or I could stand up without doing them up. Both options would not have resulted in work appropriate outcomes.

I opted for secret option #3. My desk chair had wheels. The bathroom was only 2 doorways, 3 turns and a long hallway away. I COULD DO THIS!

I calmly put my hands up in front of my face (to prevent saucy stains…) and started to propel my seated self across the office. My co-workers looked at me first like “WTF is she doing?” and then the facial expression of a calm understanding passed over them, “Oh right, it’s Karin.”

My chair was being non-compliant so I had to go into the accounting office where my good friend Farley was, and then risk making the rest of the journey by foot, praying that my pants would not drop.

Farley: Uh… why are you wheeling in here


Farley: …


Farley: …

Farley at this point calmly looked at the corner of the wall, and I attempted to stand up, keeping my pants up.

So far, so good. Next I had to maneuver down the hallway into the bathroom while squeezing my legs together to prevent my pants from falling:

To express how impressive this task was, let me draw you a map:

Luckily I was able to make it, and successfully washed my hands and face free of the sauce. As I smugly walked back to my desk, my co-worker goes, “UGGH! I ate too much, I’m going to have to pull a Karin!” and undid her pants.

That’s right. Now at work, undoing your pants is known as “pulling a Karin”. I’m so work appropriate it’s leaking over into terminology.  

*Food Friday was an invention of the office staff, we all order food and eat our lunch together in order to spend quality “team building” time together (aka. We eat garbage food and gossip and swear and claim it’s work related… Oh non existant HR department, you would have your hands full with us…)

**updated photo: taken by my fantastic co-worker to express my possession of my food. No I don't wear a cape to work normally, I was dressed as little red riding hood for halloween....**

Sunday, 16 October 2011


As anyone who knows me knows, I am terrified of zombies. I am terrified of them to the point where I am obsessed with them. I will buy anything zombie related, watch any zombie movie, and join in any zombie discussion.
Why am I afraid of zombies? Well, it all started when I was 13 and so brave I watched scary movies on my own constantly. I was tough; I knew that shit ain’t real, and so on and so forth. One day I watched a zombie movie. It was called:


Yes. Return of the Living Dead. That cheesy zombie movie where the same two guys in I and II die at the beginning and become zombies, and these zombies don’t die. They also look surprisingly like pop stars:

Holy shit, why would you be scared of zombies based on that movie?? Well, it all started with that one tiny little statement that some movies have…

“Based on a true story” has ruined my life and made me a zombie fearing freak. After watching said movie I approached my father to ask him if it could be based on a real story. My father was quite possibly the smartest man alive, and so I assumed he knew the answer. He asked me how the zombies came about. I explained that a magical container of unknown goo from the US government (those fuckers) unleashed a gas that turned those that inhaled it into zombies. After explaining this, I looked at my father all expectantly, waiting for the “Pfft, that’s just plain silly!” that I had hoped for and would end the unsettled feeling in my gut. He looked at me and goes, “Oh. Well in that case, it is based on a true story.”


He then went on to explain that back in the dark ages (aka 70’s?) there was a military lab that had a morgue below it. Some kind of chemical spilled in the lab, went down the drain, and then dripped onto a cadavre in the morgue. The chemical reacted with the skin on the cadavre and reached the muscle, causing it to shrink, which made the arm of the cadavre jerk, giving the appearance of the arm moving itself. What I heard was, “The military has secret goo that will make bodies move and KILL YOU” followed by, “kill them all first, sweetie. It’s the only way.”

This conversation completely ruined my life. From this point on, I became terrified of zombies. I had to read everything I could, watch everything I could, and learn everything I could to prepare myself.

So here we are, 15 years and an insanely huge and obsessive amount of research later and I now know that I have immunity to zombies. How? Easy. The sheer power of my mind. All I do is yell “IMMUNITY!” out loud. It is completely logical that this is the reason I will survive the zombie apocalypse and no one else will. For example:

I get bit by a zombie, I scream “IMMUNITY!” and the zombie virus has no effect on me. This will also work in other scenarios, all zombie related.

I punch a zombie, scream “IMMUNITY!” and they die.

I scream “IMMUNITY” and a zombie horde will ignore me completely.

“Immunity” will save me from any chance of becoming a zombie. Therefore I will survive the zombie apocalypse. This will only work for me though, so don’t try it yourself, I’ve already claimed it as my salvation.

Just to be sure, I’ll also kill everyone that moans, groans or makes shuffling movements. It’s a sign that I care. A real conversation related to this was:
“Mom, because I love you, if you become a zombie, I will kill you immediately.”

“Thank you?”

I notice you didn’t say you’d kill me, mom. This is either because you KNOW I will survive, or you don’t love me.

Remember all, love means killing your family if they become zombies. And verbalizing it.

Friday, 7 October 2011

Karin’s Needs

I’ve come to the conclusion there are a few things in this life I need.

For one, I need gummies because they are the source of my being, especially those delicious red feet gummies that you can get from Costco for like $5 for 200. They’re so fucking delicious…. Without gummies, I may die. In fact my body is basically 90% gummy and 15% coffee (with a 5% margin of error). I am confident they are part of the reason my dentist was able to finish her home renos (sorry, dental plan, sucks to be you!).

Next, I need bacon. And cheese. Together. As much as possible. They are the most beautiful couple in the world.

It makes me feel warm in the sub cockles of my heart seeing them on the same plate. Especially intertwined around each other. I would marry this combination:

It would be a short marriage, but I would be so very happy until I became a widow… five minutes later.

My final need has only been brought to my attention fairly recently. I need a man servant. Yes, that is correct. You did read me right. I need a man servant.

Why Karin? Why do you need a man servant?

Simple. So I can do less stuff for myself! For example:

See? The man servant would allow me to remain lying on the couch and bring me something I desire, without much effort from me... while not wearing clothes (because I was too lazy to draw them on)

Basically I need someone willing to do all my mundane work for me, and with a saucy facial expression while doing so. This will allow me to continue doing things I love, like sleeping, watching TV or being on the computer.

If they could somehow pee and bathe for me as well, my life would be perfect. This person must also be willing to work for words of encouragement and the occasional high five as I am a bum and can’t afford to pay a salary. Currently, I have no man servant. MY LIFE IS SO HARD SOMETIMES!

If you’d like to apply for this position, please send me a detailed essay explaining how you would be the perfect man servant, and I will consider your offer. Bonus points if you can write my blogs for me.